


Expectations

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Cake, Bruises, Established Relationship, Kitchen Sex, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Laxus.' Freed sets the bowl down carefully on the counter, glances back at the blond once before he looks back to drag the cake pan towards him with more force than care. 'I didn’t think you’d be out of bed for a while still.'" Freed attempts to make Laxus a birthday cake, Laxus distracts him, and everything turns out okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

“What’s that for?”

Freed nearly jumps out of his skin at the words. He thought he was alone in the kitchen, as he has been for the last hour and half. Laxus really does move unreasonably quietly, for someone who usually takes up so much space; he’s right up at Freed’s shoulder when the other glances back at him, staring at the bowl Freed has only barely saved from traumatic upset.

“Laxus.” He sets the bowl down carefully on the counter, glances back at the blond once before he looks back to drag the cake pan towards him with more force than care. “I didn’t think you’d be out of bed for a while still.”

“I got bored.” The blond reaches past Freed’s elbow to grab at the bowl. “What is this?”

“It’s batter.” Freed tracks the movement, tugs the bowl back from Laxus’s unresisting grip. He can feel his cheeks starting to heat with self-consciousness, ducks his head so he doesn’t have to meet the other’s gaze. “For a cake.”

“What kind of a cake?” Laxus isn’t moving in closer but he’s not moving away, either. Freed can feel the blond’s presence just over his shoulder, dragging ticklish awareness across the back of his neck like there are fingers just shy of his skin.

“A birthday cake.” He lifts the bowl, tips it sideways so he can pour the batter into the pan. “Lemon.”

“I like lemon,” Laxus says, like he’s only just considered the matter.

“I know,” as if it even needs to be said, as if Freed hasn’t put significantly more thought into Laxus’s preference than Laxus has himself. “That’s why it’s lemon.”

“For me,” Laxus says rather than asks.

“Yes.” Freed scrapes the last of the batter into the pan, sets the bowl down in a rush and pulls the oven open. The worst of his flush is hidden in the wave of heat as he slides the pan in and shuts the door again. He thinks he might be reclaiming his composure when there’s a breath at the back of his neck, contact brushing just against the edge of his collar. “Thanks.”

It doesn’t sound like gratitude. It sounds flat, uncaring and stoic, but Freed is starting to learn that what Laxus  _does_  is far more telling than how he  _sounds_ , and just now the blond is breathing against his skin, reaching out to fit his hands in against Freed’s waist to pin him to the counter.

“Wait,” Freed insists, lifting his head and stretching to reach for the timer. “Wait, I have to set the time.”

“Fine.” Laxus doesn’t move away; he’s leaning in closer, exhaling against the back of Freed’s neck, and it takes conscious effort for the other to collect his attention enough to set the countdown for the right amount of time. It’s only absolute determination to save Laxus’s birthday cake from a fiery death that carries him through the task, and as he sets the timer back down Laxus’s mouth hits his skin directly, damp pressure warming his skin, and Freed has to throw a hand out flat on the surface in front of him to hold his balance.

“Laxus?” It comes out plaintive, a plea for an explanation, and Laxus exhales against his neck again, opens his mouth so he can lick against the edge of Freed’s skin.

“I like your hair up,” he says, and that’s not an answer but he’s pushing at the weight of Freed’s ponytail, shoving it over the other’s shoulder so he can move farther across the back of his neck. Freed lets his head fall forward in silent compliance, offers the line of his skin for Laxus’s mouth, and the blond doesn’t hesitate to accept. He’s leaning in farther, shoving Freed over the counter probably unintentionally, but his hands at the other’s waist are sliding down to his hips to brace him in place, and by the time Laxus rocks in against him Freed isn’t sure he would have put forth much protest in the first place. There’s something inexplicably comforting about being held in place like this, like he’s a doll supported only by the gentle grip of Laxus’s hands, and then Laxus’s teeth catch against the curve of his neck into his shoulder and Freed shudders and stops looking for rationalization.

“Should we move?” he offers, though he doesn’t make any attempt to slide free. It doesn’t matter where they are, really; as far as Freed is concerned anywhere Laxus is willing to kiss him is heaven itself.

“Nah.” Laxus leans back, though, takes a half-step away so the heavy heat of his body is at a little distance instead of pressed in against Freed’s back. “Turn around, Freed.”

Freed turns. Laxus is watching him, his mouth in its usual unthinking almost-frown and his eyes steady as if he’s considering what orders to give next. Freed’s breathing hard enough for the both of them, can’t so much as hold the blond’s gaze for the pounding of his heart, and Laxus is reaching for his hair, curling his fingers into it like he’s considering the soft of the strands. Freed ducks his head, shuts his eyes because it’s easier to breathe, that way, and Laxus’s fingers are sliding through his hair, taking the weight of it across his palm for a moment. It’s just for a heartbeat, a breath wrung long with adrenaline; then he’s pulling away, his hand stretching for something else, and Freed feels like he’s in the way and would slip away if it weren’t for the hand still at his hip locking him in place.

“You made me a cake,” Laxus says, his voice rumbling low over the top of Freed’s head, and Freed lets out a shaky breath, tries to concentrate on the shift of Laxus’s shoulder against him as the blond reaches past him. There’s the sound of metal on tile, the nearly-empty bowl shifting under Laxus’s fingers, and then the blond is pulling back, giving Freed a half-inch of space instead of crushing him against the counter.

Freed isn’t sure if this is pleasure, or surprise, or irritation; it’s impossible to tell from the tone, and Laxus’s face offers no additional help. “Yes?” he tries, what he intends as a statement swinging up into a question. “Is...is that okay?”

“For my birthday,” Laxus says, like he’s considering, and his head tips to the side and suddenly his eyes look soft, faintly startled and gentle, as if the angle of his head has lifted the constant veil of inscrutability over his face. Freed’s thoughts skid out, lose traction on the color of Laxus’s eyes, and the blond is lifting his hand to his mouth, his fingers sticky with the remains of the batter in the mixing bowl.

Freed can see what’s coming. It’s hardly subtle, after all, there’s no question of what Laxus is going to do. It’s still something more than he can bear, to see Laxus lick batter off one finger, the motion slow and thorough with an absolute lack of self-consciousness. Freed’s vision locks in on the damp of Laxus’s mouth, the way his tongue slides against his skin, and his blood goes hot like it’s his hand against Laxus’s lips, his fingers the blond is sucking clean.

“Hm.” Considering, again, and Laxus is staring at Freed, expression almost entirely blank, like he exists solely to observe the way Freed’s mouth is falling open of its own volition, the way his breathing is catching faster.

Freed chokes out a breath. “Is it good?”

Laxus licks up over another finger. It takes everything Freed has not to groan aloud, and that leaves nothing at all to disguise the way he can’t look away from Laxus’s mouth. There’s a flicker of motion, the hint of a smile, perhaps, at the edge of the blond’s lips, and then he’s offering his hand, a pair of fingers still sticky-sweet with batter. Freed doesn’t think; he just acts, opens his mouth in instant obedience to the motion of the blond’s hand, and Laxus’s fingers are in his mouth, pressing sweet over his tongue.

“Yeah,” Laxus says, shifting his fingers against Freed’s lips. “See?”

Freed makes some noise, something he intends as agreement but that comes out unintelligible, and Laxus does grin, then, leans in to sigh at his forehead while he slides his fingers against Freed’s mouth. There’s only the faint excuse of the batter for the first minute; then Freed’s licked Laxus’s skin clean, and there’s nothing but the pressure of the blond’s fingertips and the slick of Freed’s tongue. It doesn’t really matter. The excuse was only ever that, Freed knows without being told, and when Laxus shifts his hand down to press against his leg he reaches out to hold onto the blond’s shoulders so Laxus can push him up onto the edge of the counter properly. The bowl slides backwards, entirely forgotten by the both of them, and Laxus is sliding his hand up against the outside of Freed’s leg to seek out the front of his pants and asking, “How long do we have?”

Freed makes a lost sound, too distracted by the heat of Laxus’s fingers pressing against his stomach and over his tongue to form coherency until the blond slides his hand free so he can work at the other’s pants with both hands. Then Freed remembers the cake, the empty bowl behind him, and glances back at the timer while Laxus is unfastening his clothes for him.

“Seventeen minutes,” he says. Laxus’s fingers curl around the top of his pants, pull insistently; Freed braces his feet against the counter, leans forward to hold himself up on the blond’s shoulders, and the half-inch of space is enough for Laxus to get his clothes down off his hips.

“Long enough,” Laxus declares, nearly purring the words, and drops down out of Freed’s hold for a moment so he can peel the other’s pants the rest of the way off. He shoves them aside, leaves them against the wall with every impression of entirely forgetting them, and Freed is aware they ought to move but Laxus is getting to his feet again, stepping in close with shadowed-over want in his eyes, and instead of offering protest Freed’s shifting his legs wide and reaching out for the other’s shoulders again.

“We have to hurry,” Laxus observes, the words calm and steady in spite of their meaning, and his fingers are back, sliding in across Freed’s tongue with more purpose than idle motion this time. Freed turns his head to meet him, licks wet over Laxus’s skin, and the blond hums approval, rocks in close so the zipper of his jeans catches against the inside of Freed’s thigh. It ought to be painful but it feels like a spark, Freed is whining and arching himself in closer, leaning so far in he would fall were it not for the support of Laxus in front of him. But Laxus doesn’t shift, his shoulders prove as immovable as a wall, and he’s starting to slide his fingers against Freed’s mouth, thrusting in over his tongue in a way that is probably unnecessary but definitely pushes Freed’s blood hotter and rushes his heartbeat faster. Laxus makes a growling sound of satisfaction, pushes his fingers in hard against Freed’s tongue, and Freed gasps, his mouth coming open just as Laxus pulls his wet fingers free.

“Come here,” he says, dragging at Freed’s leg without waiting for vocal agreement. Freed tips backwards, has to throw a hand out to catch himself as his balance slides wrong, but Laxus has a hold at his leg, just under his knee so he can pull Freed up higher and tilt him back over the counter. The kitchen is hot from the radiance of the oven, or maybe that’s just the flush on Freed’s skin, electric warm adrenaline coursing through him as Laxus looks down at what he’s doing, pushes Freed’s leg up a little higher. Freed’s flushing under his gaze, as he always does -- he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how casually the blond considers him, how perfectly calmly he takes the evidence of Freed’s intense interest. But Laxus is humming low and pleased, pressing his spit-slick fingers against the other’s skin, and Freed doesn’t have to get used to the way Laxus looks at him before the blond is pushing a pair of fingers into him. There’s a burn, a flare of too-much sensation jolting up through Freed’s spine, and the arm supporting him on the counter locks out of its own accord, his head tilting back so the whimper he makes is drawn taut and high in his throat.

“Relax,” Laxus says, reminder and order at once, and Freed does, memory anxious for more even as instinct flinches back from the pressure. Laxus’s fingers slide deeper, the moisture on them barely enough to ease the motion, and Freed lets out a breath and forces his elbow to relax, consciously loosening the tension in his arm. Laxus rocks in harder, presses with his hips as if in anticipation, and the pressure inside Freed angles deeper, joltingly intense in the moment before Laxus tips his hand and shoves hard exactly where Freed wants him. Freed can’t help the shudder that runs through him, can’t hold back the invitation of his legs slipping wider. Laxus rumbles satisfaction, leans in closer; his mouth hits Freed’s jaw, his lips catching suction against the other’s skin, and he’s moving his hand faster like the other’s reaction was a coherent plea for more, thrusting in so hard Freed is pushed backwards, his hair swaying with the motion and catching over his shoulder. Laxus is kissing at his throat, working over the skin with the single-minded thoroughness that always leaves a bruise, and Freed can’t find it in him to care that the mark will be too high to cover with a shirt collar. He’s too busy trying to hold himself still, attempting to brace against the thrust of Laxus’s fingers while his entire body is thrumming hotter and hotter with the pressure of the motion inside him.

Then Laxus speaks, says something so suddenly Freed misses the meaning entirely, has to drag the fragments of composure back around him just to gasp “What?” for a repeat.

“How long?” Laxus repeats, an edge of almost-strain under the words this time. He draws his fingers free and Freed twists his head to check the time, takes a moment to understand the numbers instead of focusing in on the sound of a zipper and fabric rustling.

“Eleven,” Freed says, and Laxus is grabbing at his hip, pulling his attention sharply back around.

“Enough,” he says, like he’s the one in control of the flow of time. Freed’s balance is still thrown back, angled out over the counter, and Laxus doesn’t pause to adjust that, just pulls him closer to the edge until his balance is precarious at best and downright dangerous at worst. But Laxus is pushing his leg high, up until he can hook Freed’s heel against his shoulder, and Freed only has a moment to process the angle he’ll need to be in before Laxus is pulling him in closer with a spit-slick hand, fitting himself in against the other with the unerring precision of absolute confidence. His jeans are barely open, his shirt shoved sideways out of the way rather than off, and Freed does the only thing he can do, which is lean back against the counter so he won’t fall as Laxus starts to thrust forward.

It helps that he’s holding himself still. It also helps that Laxus is pressing his fingers hard against his hips, digging in the prints of his hands against the pale skin without thinking about the afterimages at all. It’s still hard to take at once, the stretch of Laxus thrusting into him and the force sliding him backwards against the surface, and then Laxus groans some noise of satisfaction and Freed has to shut his eyes and breathe hard through the rush of echoing heat that threatens to swamp his consciousness entirely. Laxus leans in closer, until his shoulder fits in under Freed’s up-angled leg, and then he’s braced, steady and close so he can pull back and thrust in again in another rush of heat through Freed’s body. It’s enough, it’s too much, Freed’s hair is catching against the sticky remnants of batter in the bowl behind him and he can’t care, he can’t control the way he’s arching his back or the sounds coming up from his throat, and if he had any self-consciousness at all he would be horribly embarrassed by the little mewling noises that are slipping past his lips with every movement of Laxus’s hips. But he doesn’t, he’s falling to pieces before Laxus has even let his hold go, and Laxus is groaning each exhale to underpin the sounds Freed is making, and it’s all overheated and too much and perfect all at the same time.

Then there’s pressure against the ache of want in Freed’s cock, sudden and startling, and he really does fall, his elbow skidding out and to drop him back against the counter. The bowl behind him clatters loud and slips sideways and then Freed is flat on the tile, gasping at the ceiling and arching until he’s supported by his shoulders and that single leg up against Laxus’s shoulder. Laxus is breathing hard, the deliberate heavy rhythm that speaks to his focus, but his hand is moving fast, jerking quick and sudden up across Freed’s length so there’s not even a moment for the other to catch his breath. Everything is winding tighter in Freed, aching pressure fluttering like a second heartbeat under his skin, and Laxus keeps moving, strokes up hard over and into him out of sync and without a hint of slowing or stopping. Freed’s throat goes taut, the high breathless whine of his inhale cracking low and desperate for a moment; then he’s collapsing flat over the counter, quivering into pleasure as he comes across Laxus’s hold. Laxus is making some noise, a wordless almost-laugh of satisfaction, and he’s letting Freed go to hold him in place with both hands, and Freed lets himself go limp and quaking while Laxus drives into him in pursuit of his own pleasure. The friction is enough to drag out Freed’s own aftershocks, to leave him trembling and incoherent where he lies straight through until Laxus curves in over him and groans the particular resonance that Freed can feel humming through his bones as he comes.

Freed has forgotten all about the cake. It’s hard to remember anything at the present moment, harder still to recall how to care about it. But then there’s a high-pitched beeping, jolting him into confusion for a moment, and Laxus laughs low and breathless and pulls away.

“The cake,” he offers as he disentangles himself from Freed’s leg.

“ _Ah_ ” and Freed is moving, sliding off the counter and reaching for the oven door. He’s a mess, sticky and sweaty and with his hair tangled and knotted from the cake batter, but that’s all to worry about in a minute. He has to turn off the timer, and get the oven open, and retrieve the cake, looking remarkably intact and undamaged in spite of Freed’s complete lack of concern for it while it was cooking. He manages to get it to the cooling rack, upends the pan so gravity will land the cake on the wire safe and undamaged. He’s still breathless from the adrenaline of panic and the shock of relief when fingers fit into his hair, lift the weight off his shoulders.

“There’s batter in your hair,” Laxus observes from behind him.

Freed lifts a hand, touches damp against his hair and the heat of Laxus’s hand at once. “Oh no.” His fingers come away sticky with sugar, sweet when he touches them to his lips. “I should take a shower.”

“The oven is still on,” Laxus points out calmly.

Freed makes a wailing noise of too-much adrenaline and not enough focus, turns to reach for the oven. Laxus beats him to it, clicks the dial over to ‘off’ while Freed is still trying to stretch over the distance. The blond is laughing, chuckling slow and warm against Freed’s hair, and there’s the ghost of pressure, lips skimming against the back of the other’s head while Freed is still stalled out on too many things to do and too little sense of where to start.

“Mm.” Motion, something catching against the loose strands of his ponytail. “You taste good, Freed.”

Freed knows he’s being teased. There’s no trace of it in Laxus’s voice, nothing but absolute deadpan sincerity, but he is absolutely certain that the blond is teasing him. Under other circumstances he would freeze up, go cold and panicked with uncertainty about his response. But as he is -- on Laxus’s birthday, shaky with pleasure and sticky-sweet with cake batter -- for once, he can’t manage panic. All he can do is lean in over the counter, tips his head forward over the blessedly safe cake, and laugh helplessly while Laxus grins against the back of his neck.

It might not have turned out the way Freed was expecting, but he can hardly find a reason to complain.


End file.
